


The East Ridge Scarecrow

by FlyByMe



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, F/M, Gotham is in Georgia too now, More tags to be added, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27962216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyByMe/pseuds/FlyByMe
Summary: When a copycat emerges a year after serial killer Jonathan Crane is captured by Gotham County police, authorities are puzzled as no suspects seem to arise. Angela Meers takes it upon herself to investigate the murders and interview the incarcerated Crane himself. Professional interest for the sake of investigative journalism, she tells herself.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Original Character(s), Jonathan Crane/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. As If I Don't Already Have Enough To Do

In all ways apparent, the young woman lying on the table is identical to those found a year ago. Somewhere between 20 to 30 years old. Pretty, dark brown hair, dark eyes, pale skin. She's cold, lifeless, and has a y-shaped incision shoulder to shoulder and down to her pelvis. No clear surgical experience evident on either the prior victims nor the woman lying on the coroner's table, but the incisions are still clean and undisturbed. A small strand of hay, no more than a thread, is laced between her fingers.

James Hughes sighs as several other agents buzz behind him. Of course, a copycat. With Jonathan Crane, the East Ridge Scarecrow, locked up in Gotham State max ward, Hughes safely ruled out it was his doing. Still, he, and the rest of the FBI team assembled to investigate, could admit that they're stumped.  
East Ridge isn't a particularly large town. A couple churches, all Roman Catholic, a high school and a half-decent football team, the only news the rest of Georgia heard from East Ridge in the past 50 years was the Scarecrow murders a year ago. It'd made national news: "Massacre in Small Town USA" "East Ridge: Home to Hicks, Hay and Homicide" and "Killer Crane; Scarecrow Slays Eight" drowned the once sleepy town in journalists.  
Why, of all places, East Ridge?

Hughes leaves the room. The room, claustrophobic as ever, reeks with rain and horse feed. The air conditioning making the air stale and unnaturally chilly in the mid-June summer. "Dear God," He says to an empty lobby, "Let us get the name of this bastard soon."

* * *

Angela Meers is not a nationally acclaimed journalist. She writes well with what she's given, typewriter and all, but it's not the investigative journalism she was hoping to jump into when she became an assistant at the East Ridge printing house. It's a consolation that everyone in East Ridge reads the Register, but she can't help but feel like a big fish in a small pond as she's stuck in the advice columns on the back of the comics page.  
Angela is not a nationally acclaimed journalist, but it doesn't take a newscaster to notice the influx of men in dark suits in the small farm town. Whispers spread during church events, students from East Ridge high gossipped to their parents and their parents gossipped to them. Soon enough, everyone knows about the FBI returning. They all know about the murder -- Marianne Carol was a university student in Gotham, returning home for the summer after her sophmore year. They found her body on her father's farm.

"Mr. Stevens! Mr. Stevens, could I please speak with you for a minute?" Angela calls out to her boss. "Please, just a bit? It's... it's pretty important." He sighs, but nods and directs her to his office.  
Stevens shrugs off his blazer, pitstains evident on his off-white button up. "What is it Ms. Meers?"  
"Sir, I have a story. You know, about Marianne Carol? I was thinking... well I was thinking that I could write something up about the details. An investigative piece. You know, the FBI are in town again." Angela huffs out.  
Stevens bristles. "Ms. Meers - Angela - when I hired you, I hired you as a personal assistant of sorts."  
"But sir I-"  
He holds up a hand. "No, Angela. You are not a journalist. You do not have a story and you are not writing for this case. I already have Ms. Tarry writing for the Scarecrow case."  
"But sir! I have details! I've already spoken to Marianne's parents, and I visited their farm. I was friends with Marianne! Tonia hasn't even started to write anything yet, she's still catching up research on the Crane case!" She throws her hands up, turning from her boss.  
"Angela, this _is_ the Crane case!"  
"Jonathan Crane is locked up in Gotham State Penitentiary. His case was _last year_. _This_ is something new." Angela knows she isn't getting anywhere with Stevens. Why would she? No standing in the newsprint like Tonia Tarry (who covered the Scarecrow murders last year in the Gotham Gazette and stayed in East Ridge after the fact) so why should no name Angela Meers write the next big investigative article?

With a resigned sigh, the woman sidles out of Steven's office and walks down the hallway to her small cubicle.  
She murmurs to herself, a quiet whisper: "Can't I catch a break?" A head pokes up from her neighbor's desk.  
"Something wrong Annie?" It's Tonia Tarry.  
"It's Angela, and it's nothing. Just have my feathers a bit ruffled, that's all. I'll be fine."  
"Angela, shit, sorry. I'll get it soon, I've never been good with names." In exhaspiration, Tonia slaps her forehead and slumps back in her office chair. "Say, since you're feeling down, why don't you join me and a couple of my girlfriends after work? We're heading to Oscar's for drinks."  
"I don't want to intrude..."  
"Nonsense! I've already invited Sara, but she's going on a date with her husband. C'mon, it's just a couple of pals, I can introduce you." 

Angela knows Sara Page is _not_ going on a date with her husband because he lives in Gotham City, but she keeps her toungue.

"I guess I could join, but I probably won't stay long if that's alright with you."

* * *

For a dive bar, Oscar's is pretty well furnished. The exterior is a cozy brick illuminated with bright streetlights and a half-awake marquee sign that spells out the owner's name. Oscar himself is the primary bartender, an all-American man with graying hair and tired eyes. Still, the establisment has a warm atmosphere and as Angela steps in, the warm summer night followed her footsteps into the bar.  
She's followed closely by Tonia, who pinned up her brown hair into a ponytail in the office's bathroom and discarded her dress shirt for a more casual tee. Angela hadn't changed her appearance since leaving her apartment in the morning, and as such is seemingly overdressed for the rustic atmosphere. Dress shirt and pencil skirt, she enters sheepishly and as Tonia seats them at the bar, Angela can't help but rustle her black hair from her bun to achieve some level of casualness.

"My friends," Tonia says, "Should be coming soon. Oscar, could we get a pitcher?" Oscar clearly knew Tonia and pushed a large pitcher of beer towards the women with a quiet grunt.  
Angela pours herself a drink as Tonia asks "So, tell me about yourself."  
Angela takes a swig of her beer, "There's really nothing to me I guess. I grew up here in East Ridge. I turn 22 in September. Uh, I'm an only child, I have by own house."

"Do you live alone?"  
_"What?"_  
"I asked if you like your home." Angela is sure Tonia was bullshitting her.  
"Uh, yeah. Yeah I... It's nice." The two make small talk as they nurse their drinks when finally Tonia's friends show up. Both blondes, they stumble into the bar already looking drunk and hanging off the arms of two college-age men. One was very leggy and the other very short, they look as if they could be sisters.

"Alice, this is Jean," Tonia motions to the tall one, "and this is Jennifer." The short one. Plastering on a smile, Angela nods at them, but doesn't make to shake their hands as it appeared they can't keep them off of their arm candy.  
"Jesus Alice, I wasn't expecting them to show up pissed like this. Sorry about that. Oscar, can we have another pitcher?" Angela hadn't even noticed they'd finshed off the first, but after Oscar set the second down she pours herself another glass.  
"So Alice, honestly I did hear what you and Stevens were arguing about at the office." Tonia murmurs to Angela. "It's kinda shitty of him to keep this opportunity from you, you know? The Scarecrow case right? There's whispers that Crane escaped and killed Marianne, but I don't buy it." Of course, reasons Angela, Crane is in max ward miles away in Gotham. There's no feasable reason how he would be able to get all the way to East Ridge without capture.  
"Yeah, I heard the FBI is working on the case again. Look, Tonia, I don't really want to talk about it right now."

Tonia slaps her forehead, leaning away from the bar top. "Shit, sorry I forgot you were _knew_ Marianne."  
Bitter, Angela snaps back "I'm going home now." Angela stands from the bar stool, nodding at Oscar, and hedged towards the exit.  
"No Alice, really I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up, I swear."  
"My name is _Angela_ and I'm still going. Bye Jean, bye Jennifer." And with that, she whisks herself out of the bar.

It started to rain sometime after Angela first entered the bar. A warm rain, nothing more than a nuisance as she hurries towards her car. The water comes in sheets, dripping down and obscuring her vision. Maybe it's the street lights glaring down at her, but she can't help but feel she's being followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Jonathan Coulton's Brave
> 
> Yeah, I started another story when I'm nowhere close to finishing the other. I have a better plan for where I want this one to go though, so lets hope I keep up posting.


	2. There's a Hole In Your Logic

James Hughes gives a resigned sigh as he shifts the phone receiver to his shoulder. "Another one so soon? Where was this one found?" He jots the location down on his legal pad, checks his watch, and responds "Yes I'll be there soon. Yep. See you."

* * *

The crime scene, surprisingly, is not nearly as gruesome as one might think. The grassy field the body was found on was relatively cleared of blood from the previous night's rain, and the only indication of a struggle was the cadaver that had been delivered to the coroner's office before Hughes' arrival and the faint imprint of a body in the blades of grass. Striking just as the FBI rolled in? Bold. Whoever killed this woman was bold, maybe dumb, but nonplussed by the thread of law enforcement.  
The techs collecting evidence from the crime scene spares Hughes a glance as he brushes past them, but ducks their heads down after he passes by. They stare down at the flattened grass and scratch their heads at the shiny blades.  
Hughes shrugs his blazer off; God, this weather is awful. Georgia summers never were great for field work, and this was ever apparent as he sweat in his work shirt. There's a sheen to his skin as he observes the techs crawling on the ground, but he makes no move to wipe it off.

"Sir?" one of the techs asks, "You might want to see this." She gestures towards the flattened grass. "See, the way that the grass is pressed down shows that _something_ was dragged. Whoever this person was, couldn't have been strong. At least, not strong enough to carry the victim without a struggle." As Hughes inspects the field, she continues. "And from the way these were pushed down, we can determine that the body was dragged to its position in the field rather than moving away  
"That being said, now we know the direction that the perp was coming _from_."  
Hughes breaths deeply. Finally, a lead. "I'm going to the coroners. Keep me updated on the crime scene."

* * *

As Hughes drives, he makes a decision to go the long way and go towards the town; the direction the dragging was coming from. His sedan hums as he passes a couple of shops, a church, and a small bar before he gets to the coroner's office.   
Inside was just as sterile as the last time he'd been here, the AC cranked up to the max and a faint buzz from the office lights filling the lobby with a droning white noise. As he steps into the examination room, James Hughes cannot help but to groan at the body lying on the table. Same dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. Same y-shaped cut and same strand of hay woven between the woman's fingers.  
"Do we have a name yet?"  
"Not yet, she was missing her clothes when we found her."  
"What are the details?"  
"Found at 5:44 this morning by a driver passing through. Phoned from a pay booth, didn't give any details about their identity. Time of death estimated around 11:30 last night, but with the rain it's a bit hard to pinpoint. High blood alcohol levels."  
The second body, so pale its skin is blue, lies still. Just hours before the woman must've been enjoying herself, drinking. Drinking... Hughes thinks to himself. The bar he passed.

With a quick excuse to the coroner, James Hughes is on the road again, retracing his path through the town to the hole-in-the-wall he passed earlier. After parking his car, Hughes dashes into the bar whose sign displays the owner's name in an unlit marquee: Oscar's. As he enters the bar, he cases the area. Wood and brick, completely empty save for a lone worker behind the bar. The worker, an older man he presumes is Oscar, blinks tiredly at the FBI agent.

"Can I help you?" He grunts, turning from Hughes as he goes to organize the stock behind him.  
"FBI. I'm agent Hughes. Did you work last night?"  
The man, back still to the agent, grunts in affirmation. "Yeah I worked. Why d'you need to know?"  
"Reason to suspect a victim was in this bar last night. Maybe 10, 11 PM?"  
"You're gonna have to give me more to work on that. Idn't be givin' you the name of everyone who drank here." His speech is slow, his drawl expanding his words to a pace near unbearable for Hughes.

Hughes scratches at his neck, tugging at his collar. "White female. Early-mid twenties, dark hair, dark eyes, maybe 5'3" or 5'4". 125 pounds tops."  
Oscar huffs, "Sure got plenty of girls like that. Ones that left around 10? Two girls -- Tonia Tarry and her friend both left in a bit of a hurry last night."

* * *

She was a reporter for the newspaper. Tonia Tarry, who had written for the Scarecrow murders last year, was dead. Though plagued with guilt, Angela borders on ecstatic; Stevens had given her the copycat story to write about.  
First assignment: write about Tonia's death. Pouring over her deceased coworker's past writings, Angela writes up a spec article for the next day's morning print. With a look over from Stevens, her first big-news article is sent off to the press.  
The next day, the papers are distributed with her headline on the front cover. "Scarecrow Repeat Strikes Second" plastered over the pages.

Miles away, Jonathan Crane sits in his cell, humming to himself as he glances over the newspaper in his guard's hands. The picture accompanying the small print leaves much to the imagination, but Crane finds it in himself to chuckle at the text. At the noise, The guard rattles the bars holding the killer inside and folds his newspaper.  
"You better not have anything to do with this shit, Crane. You're in deep shit already, don't want to make it worse for you."

Whether a threat or just a poor attempt at trying to scare the man, Crane is unfazed. "Trust me, I'm as in the dark as the reporter who wrote the article."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we see some of Crane. Also, writing in present tense is hard y'all. I'm trying to challenge myself with this.
> 
> Title taken from "Goodbye Mr. A" by The Hoosiers


	3. We Learned Each Other's Fears

The max ward of Gotham State Penitentiary is uncharacteristically quiet after word spread about the repeat killings. Of course, it's all rumors spread through whispers as no inmate is allowed to watch the news, but here and there those with higher privilages are given newspapers, tips from their family, and hushed whispers from the guard and soon everyone knows about the small town.   
Crane, always well mannered, sits alone in the corner of the cage-like recreation area outside of the prison. No other inmate particularly likes the man, but they'd all rather not interact with him. Despite his rather waifish stature, stringy and overall unassuming, it's the way he carries himself that disturbs even the brutish elite of the prison. One would think that he'd be a target - violence against women isn't a glamorous crime in the slightest and the residents of GSP had never had an issue hurting, killing, _raping_ the men whose crimes reflected the punishment, and yet there was something about Jonathan Crane. Something malignant that attached itself to whomever interacted with Crane. Friends in higher places, they think.

Crane sits in the corner, observing the other inmates with a cold gleam in his eyes. His blue shirt buttoned to the collar and his jeans still the darkest color out of all other inmates. He's well put together when the guard guides him to a visitation room.  
Two chairs sit on either side of a metal table, separated by a shatter-proof glass pane, with a phone line connecting the two. One chair is empty. His. The other occupied by a young woman, dark hair, dark eyes, well made up. Hair loose around her shoulders and wearing a white button-up shirt & black slacks. She was certainly not a relative (he'd killed his only known family years ago) and definitely not a spouse. She's already cradling the speaker of the phone to her ear as he walks in. Crane sits down and grabs the other end of the phone.

"I'm afraid I haven't a clue as to who you are," His voice never wavers, his southern drawl faint compared to the guard's she'd encountered. He sounds refined, almost.   
"Angela Meers, I'm from the-"  
"From the newspaper, yes I know," His eyes bore into her own. Cold. Devoid of any emotion besides contempt. "You're writing about the new killings. I read your article. You're not a very good writer are you?" At this Angela put down the phone to take a breath. "No, I suppose you wouldn't be if you're so new at your job, hm?"  
Crane leans back in his chair, smirking at the woman in front of him. "Why did you come all the way out to big city Gotham? Just to see me? Or did you just take a day trip because you're tired of small town East Ridge? Can't say I blame you."

"I'm here to interview you. Since the killings are... since they're so similar to last year's... _your_ work, I'm here to interview you." The reporter digs into her purse, passing by her silenced cellphone and a few mint gum wrappers, and brings out a legal pad & cheap pen to the table in front of her. The guard behind her shifts a bit at the sight of the pen, but doesn't interrupt.  
"What makes you think I'm willing to speak with you?" He murmurs. She stills, pen balanced between her fingers. With a glance down at the yellow - empty - paper sitting in front of her, Angela sighs.  
"Well I- I don't know," she starts, "I'm not even here on official business." Her dark eyes stay downcast as she fiddles with her pen. "Regardless... consider it personal interest maybe. If you don't want what we discuss published in the papers, then I won't publish it. I'll burn whatever I write down here."  
Crane can't help but laugh. "What," he gasps, wheezing at the glass, "makes you think I'll believe a word of the shit you're spouting?"

Angela flinches as Crane's fist pounds on the metal table. His laugh distorting his voice, he hunches down as he speaks in a hoarse croak, "Listen _sweetheart_. I don't trust a second of what the press promises me. I'm not a fucking idiot." His head bowed, from an outsider's perspective Crane appears to be crying. Yet no tears leak down his cheeks as he stifles another cackle.  
Angela shifts in her seat. "I... Is it true that you chose your victims because of their physical resemblance to your mother?" Crane rolls his eyes. "If so, why do you think that the copycat chose to have her victims and method identical to your own?"  
Crane's head perks up. "Her? What makes you so sure that the killer is female?" He smirks up at Angela, eyes boring through her own.  
She gulps. "Just a guess."  
"Just a guess, hm?" He shakes his head, arms spread far from his body and smile still jeering, Crane leans back in his chair.  
"Look," Angela huffs, snapping out of her stupor, "Whether you believe me or not, I'm going to keep my word so long as you give me yours, alright? I don't even care about the story anymore, to hell with it! To hell with the paper, Stevens, to hell with the Scarecrow murders!" The journalist snatches up her pen and paper as she stands, chair skidding back on the linoleum flooring. Stuffing them into her purse, she speeds to the exit, glaring at the guard as he looks at her bewildered.

Another guard approaches Crane from behind, cuffing his wrists as the murderer stares at Angela's retreating form. Neither phone is put back on its holder.

* * *

Her professional attire, though initially well put together, is now disheveled. To stave the Georgia heat, Angela had unbuttoned the top of her blouse upon exiting the prison. Despite the looming shadows of tall Gotham skyscrapers, the summer heat still permeates through the big city.  
Why had she taking this trip? Angela asks herself. As much as she'd like to deny it, the failed interview makes Angela tremble. Her feet jitter on the cracked asphalt as she walks to her car, her fingers fidgeting along the lining of her purse.   
She checks her phone, finding a message from an unknown number.  
"FBI Agent Hughes, we'd like to speak with you. Please go to 602 west Hanbury street at 2 PM tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, another chapter so soon? I'm on winter break right now so I actually have time to do things now!
> 
> Title taken from "To My Enemies" by Saint Motel


	4. Head Rush and a Couple of Bucks

Were it not for the guns holstered on each worker's hips, the FBI office that Angela arrives at would appear no more menacing than her own place of work. Sitting at rows of paper-laden tables are three desk jockies each scribbling on pages of reports and overlooking manilla folders full of classified documents. Two men and a woman. None turn their heads as Angela steps into the building, but an older woman stops her to ask if she had been requested. Her hair, stark white, contrasts greatly from her dark skin. Her face is like cut stone, unfazed as Angela gives her name, and the woman ushers her to a room in the back. They pass the desk jockies, through a set of heavy doors guarded by a younger man who pats the reporter down and shuffles through her purse to check for weapons.  
"Standard procedure," he tells her, returning the purse to Angela. She and the older woman pass through a second set of doors, down a hallway, a turn to the right, and into a small concrete-brick room. Inside is a set of three plastic chairs and a metal table bolted to the ground. Angela is made to sit at the chair facing the door as the older woman sits in one of the adjacent chairs. Minutes later a middle-aged man enters at sits at the last chair.

The man extends his hand for Angela to shake. "Agent James Hughes," he gestures to the woman, "This is Agent Maude Deniau. We're investigating the recent... ah, events occuring in East Ridge." Deniau stiffly nods, but says nothing.  
"Normally we would go into the victim's associated communities to interview, but we figured that snooping along the press wouldn't be the smartest idea. Now, everything you say in here will stay anonymous of course, we just want to gather some of your thoughts about the whole situation." He lets the unspoken question float through the small room.  
Clearing her throat, Angela says, "Well I didn't know Tonia very well... that's who we're talking about, right?" Deniau nods again. "I mean, I worked with her for a little less than a year. Um. I read her article about Scarecrow- I mean- Crane. The one in the Gazette." Her speech, punctuated by sharp inhales every other word, begins to settle into a nervous twang. Angela's accent, though not as strong as other's in East Ridge, introduces itself into the conversation as her nervousness grows.  
"I'm sorry, I guess I'm just... frazzled from her death. I- I- I know that I said I wasn't close with Tonia, but still, you know?" Angela glances up at Hughes who nods silently.   
Angela continues. "I'm spooked I guess. So what happened that night. Uh, she and I went over to Oscar's and we were going to get a drink with some of her friends. I'd been a little upset at work, nothing important of course, when she noticed and offered to bring me along. We met her friends, uh Jen and Jennifer or Jackie or something. Two girls. They brought along their boyfriends. I can't remember their names." Hughes holds up his hand.

"Did you and Tarry have any sort of... confrontation before the two of you left?"  
The reporter's eyes widen. "No, no, no. Of course not. No, we finished a pitcher of beer, and then I left before her. It was raining, so I didn't really check to see if she left too, I just made my way to my car as soon as I could."  
"She didn't try to argue or anything? You left and that was the night?" Angela nods.

Hughes hums, "Well, Ms. Meers, I suppose that's all we'd like to ask today. Would you be alright if we contacted you later to ask anything else?" At Angela's verbal confirmation, she's sent on her way out of the FBI office.  
Angela exhales a long breath. That was enough for today.

* * *

Crane attends regular group "therapy" sessions in the prison. Once a week, the inmates (all the best behaved in the max ward) are sat down in a semi-circle around some shrink calling themselves a professional.  
His arms stay shackled together and a guard is always on watch.

"So, Jonathan. I heard you had a visitor yesterday?" Ah first contact. The shrink of the week tentatively acknowledges Crane, shooting him a nervous glance. The other inmates chuckle at the doctor's words. Didn't this man have any idea Crane would fuck with him?  
None of the inmates really know about the man's past. Stories range from a field medic in some war to being a criminal psychologist not unlike the poor sap sat in front of the bear cage. None of the inmates really know who Crane is, but they do know the man has enough brains to steer whatever conversation the shrink thinks he's driving.

Almost as if donning a mask, Crane's cold glare at the shrink softens as he leans back in his chair. He crosses his arms as best as he can with his cuffs, and grins, glancing up as if in contemplation. "Yeah, real doll," he drawls. His accent is thicker today, the inmates notice. "Real peach. Pretty girl, just had a few questions, you know how it is. Interested, eyes flutterin' at me."  
He pauses for a second. "Well, I don't know if you know how it is, judging by your looks. Short, but heavy set. What, 5'6" and 240 pounds? Pudgy. Indentation on left ring finger indicating years of marriage but recent separation. Oh, you're sweating doctor. Was it something I said? Or is it the idea that some girl wants to _fuck_ a serial killer more than some dead beat doctor?"  
Crane's grin widens as the doctor sputters. The shrink soon calls off the rest of the session, and the rest of the inmates disperse as Crane is pulled aside by the guard keeping watch.

The guard raises his baton, tapping it on the side of Crane's face. "Don't pull that shit next time, Scarecrow."

Crane's demeanor shifts back from the openness of the session, tall frame hunching over and eyes hooded by his dark brows. He keeps a stiff upper lip while he glares at the baton. "Wouldn't dream of it." The guard removes the baton from Crane's face and returns it to his side.

The killer's eyes settle on the baton as he's dismissed to his room, but Crane doesn't leave after he's discharged. Instead, he snatches the rough baton and with a deafening CRACK, Crane is running with an unconscious guard left in his wake. He dashes through the stone walls of Gotham State, stolen keys and baton in hand, and makes it through droves of guards out to the free world.

He's made it out at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I haven't abandoned this, I'm just busy. I'm still writing!!
> 
> Title taking from "Problems" by Weathers


End file.
